


Mating Games 2013 Bonus Challenges and Extras

by the_deep_magic



Series: Mating Games [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Birthday, Bloodplay, Dare, Day At The Beach, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Karaoke, Kid Fic, Masturbation, Multi, Porn Watching, Road Trips, Vibrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short fills for bonus challenges and extra (unsubmitted) challenge fics.  Individual pairings and ratings at the top of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bonus 1: Best/Worst Birthdays

**Author's Note:**

> Erica/Stiles, gen, kid!fic

Erica glances at her watch again. It's purple and plastic, but it looks almost like a grown-up watch, with a dial and hands and everything. It still takes a minute to work out in her head: when the little hand is on the 12 and the big hand is on the 5, it means... it means lunch is almost over.

She looks at the contents of her lunchbox: the turkey sandwich she was too excited to eat, the bunch of grapes she's been nibbling on. But no cookie or fruit snacks or anything, because Mom is bringing the cupcakes. One for everyone in the class -- Erica had stood by the table that morning and counted them all in the boxes, just to make sure there were enough. They were vanilla, not chocolate, which is Erica's favorite, and the grocery store hadn't had purple icing, her mom said, only pink, but there were 24, enough for all her classmates and Ms. Covington and one extra, just in case.

Erica swings her feet harder under her chair and squirms. She won't look at her watch again. She won't. Mom will be here any second, and Ms. Covington is nice, she'll let them stay just a few more minutes in the cafeteria so everyone can finish their cupcakes and sing "Happy Birthday" to her. Even the mean ones will sing, because they get cupcakes too and everyone loves cupcakes.

Finally, she breaks down and looks at her watch. The big hand is moving past the 6 now, which means... "I'm sorry, Erica," Ms. Covington says, crouching down next to her. "I waited a few extra minutes, but we need to get back to the classroom now. We can still sing 'Happy Birthday' if you want."

Erica shakes her head, biting hard on her lip so she won't cry. It's no good without the cupcakes.

She zips her lunchbox shut, suddenly realizing how hungry she is since she didn't eat the sandwich. Maybe she'll have time to eat it before she gets on the bus, even though that's not until the little hand is on the 3.

When she gets out of her seat, she nearly runs into a boy in front of her. He's got short hair and big brown eyes and he's holding something out to her. It's a Ding-Dong, a little smushed so that some of the filling is coming out, but still in its clear plastic wrapper.

The boy blushes. "I already ate the first one, sorry. But it was more smushed anyway. Happy birthday."

She peers at him suspiciously. One time somebody gave her an Oreo that had been opened up and a dead fly stuck between the cream and the cookie, which she couldn't see until she bit into it. Everyone in the class laughed at her for the rest of the week.

But most everyone else has filed out of the cafeteria, and Erica remembers overhearing that this boy's mom had been too sick to bring anything on his birthday. Erica hopes she's better by now.

The boy -- he has a funny name, she never remembers it -- starts to pull his hand back, but she reaches out and snatches the Ding-Dong. "Um, thanks," she says.

He nods and walks off in the direction of the rest of the class. Erica stuffs the Ding-Dong in her pocket and follows him.

She waits forever and ever through math worksheets until the little hand is on the 1 and raises her hand to ask Ms. Covington if she can go to the bathroom. Ms. Covington looks at her a little sadly and gives her a hall pass.

Once she's in the bathroom -- in the big stall -- she pulls the Ding-Dong out of her pocket and eats it quickly. It tastes really good, even if it's almost flat by now. The filling gets all over her fingers and she has to check the mirror to make sure her mouth isn't covered in chocolate, but her stomach has stopped rumbling.

She's thinking about the boy with the big brown eyes when she remembers: _Stiles, his name is Stiles_.


	2. Bonus 2: Karaoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/Stiles, gen, dialogue only

"C'mon, Derek, it'll be fun."

" _C'mon, Derek, it'll be--_ Fine, but I get to choose the song."

"Don't worry, I'll pick something I've seen in your CD collection."

"Fine. No, wait, give me the-- Don't you fucking--"

" _Aaaaaaaare you gonna take me home tonight?_ "

"No. No no no. No."

" _Ohhhhhhh, down beside that red firelight._ "

"I am going to rip out your _spleen_."

"Pull the stick out of your-- _aaaaaaare you gonna let it all hang out..._ "

Stiles shoves the mike in his face and Derek doesn't even have time to sigh in despair. " _Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round._ "


	3. Challenge 2: Texts From Last Night (Extra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/healer!Stiles, explicit, h/c (warning: non-BDSM bloodplay)
> 
> (407): _I'm like the Mother Theresa of booty calls._

It seems Derek finally got new hardwood floors for the loft and now he’s bleeding all over them.  Typical.

Isaac looks up when Stiles walks in the wide-open front door.  At least there’s no blood trail leading in.  Creatures of the night, Stiles’ _ass_.  Creatures of the night don’t come crawling back to their pretentiously moody lofts and thereby require crime scene cleaning crews to deal with the mess.

Isaac is crouched over Derek, trying to staunch the bleeding from the gash in Derek’s thigh.  It’s steady, but not gushing.  That’s… that’s good.  Stiles’ mouth tightens into a thin line.

“Silver knife,” Isaac says, getting right to the point.  Stiles doesn’t know where the other betas are, but he’s glad they’re not here; they tend to feed off each other’s panic, and Isaac looks jumpy enough.  “I didn’t smell any wolfsbane or mountain ash, but he’s not healing.”

Stiles blanches when he finally gets a good look at Derek.  And the blood.  So much blood.  Doesn’t look like the knife hit an artery, or Derek would already be—

Stiles pushes that thought away and crouches down, Isaac automatically moving to give him room.  Closing his eyes, Stiles sets a hand on Derek’s torn jeans just above the wound, takes a deep breath, and lets the tendrils of energy flow out of the tips of his fingers.  Even through the denim, Stiles can feel the all-too-familiar fabric of Derek’s flesh from the inside.  It used to creep the hell out of him, sometimes still does, but everyone feels a little bit different to his healing senses – muscle density, tissue composition, some damn thing – and right now Derek feels warm and _alive_ on the inside.  It’s still weird, but weirdly comforting.

Stiles pushes his energy carefully around the wound, doing what he can to calm the nerves, slow down the firing of pain signals.  It’s no werewolf pain-draining trick, but it’s what he can do.  He probes, gently, at the spots where severed tissue meets air, checking for anything that shouldn’t be there.  “I don’t feel any poison,” he says.  “It’s a clean cut, I think the silver just… cauterized it open, I guess?  But without stopping the bleeding.  The knife could’ve been spelled.”

Isaac bites his lip.  “But you can…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, like it’s nothing – there are currently two people listening intently to his heartbeat for signs of trouble.  He doesn’t need werewolf senses to smell the anxiety coming off of Isaac, so he waves him off.  Derek grunts at the loss of contact, but Stiles is going to have to move to take Derek’s pants off anyway.  “I got this.  Go.”

With a jerky nod, Isaac leaves.  He lives upstairs, but he heads out the front door, probably to Scott’s.  He still looks nervous, but at least he doesn’t make a big-ass deal out of it.  Everyone knows Stiles likes to work in private anyway.

When Stiles eases Derek’s shredded jeans down and has his wound exposed, he can finally concentrate.  Healing a werewolf is different from healing a human.  In a lot of ways, it’s easier – Stiles could learn by feeling Derek heal himself, how the muscle and connective tissue knit back together, even the tiny capillaries rejoining.  (He should have known from the beginning, he thinks, from the way Derek was so willing to slice himself up just to let Stiles feel him mend.)  It’s delicate work, and he doesn’t know if he can completely master it in a whole lifetime, but he quickly patches the severed blood vessels together to stop the bleeding.  Whatever weapon was used, it doesn’t allow Stiles to neatly match up the edges like usual, but he tries to seal everything else up as best he can until there’s nothing but a thin red line where the gash used to be.

Derek pushes himself up on his elbows to look, sweat dripping down his face, which is finally regaining a little color.

“Not quite as good as new,” Stiles says lightly, trying to keep the tremor of relief out of his voice as he wipes his hands on Derek’s ruined jeans.  “Either your wolfy powers will take care of it or you’ll have a bitchin’ scar.  Before you complain, remember that none of the other werewolves get bitchin’ scars.”

Derek growls and yanks Stiles toward him, trying to hide the fact that his arm is trembling and he’s still so pale.  But Stiles goes with it, leaning forward until Derek has to lower himself back to the floor and Stiles is hovering over him with a hand on either side of Derek’s shoulders.  Derek continues pulling at Stiles’ shirt until he can kiss him so ruthlessly that Stiles has to throw a leg over Derek’s hips just so he doesn’t collapse on top of him.  As soon as he settles in, knees taking most of his weight, he feels the cloth-covered bulge of Derek’s erection thrusting up against his ass.

They’ve both long since rewired their fight-or-flight responses into something more like fight-or-fuck (sometimes simultaneously), so Stiles scoots back enough to undo his own jeans and shove them down to mid-thigh while Derek pulls his own cock out of his underwear.

Stiles gets a hand around both of them, lacing their fingers together and starting up a fast, brutal rhythm.  There’ll be time for slow later.  Right now, Stiles needs to feel that Derek’s alright and Derek just needs to feel _good_ , so Stiles drops down on one elbow to press their foreheads together.   For once, Derek’s breath is coming faster than Stiles’, and each hard puff feels like a kiss against Stiles’ wet, open lips.

Working their hands faster, Stiles slips a thumb over the head of Derek’s cock whenever he can, trying not to think about the fact that most of the slickness on their hands is a combination of sweat and blood.  There’s something sickly fascinating about it, though, about having something good and vibrant coming out of all that spilled blood.

Derek moans, ruts up hard enough that Stiles’ knees almost leave the floor, and comes.  Stiles rides it out, his own cock aching for release.  He gets the chance when Derek lets go, more spent than he’s trying to let on, gripping Stiles’ hip and growling “ _C’mon_.”

It’s the first actual word Derek’s said to him tonight, and it only takes Stiles a few more strokes with Derek watching him through hooded eyelids.  Stiles shudders quietly through his own orgasm, spilling onto Derek’s chest and belly.

He flops to the side, still pressed up against Derek’s body.  It’s a good thing he killed off any sense of shame years ago, because he’s still mostly clothed save for his bare ass on the cold floor, his clothes covered in a variety of not-so-machine-washable bodily fluids. 

Some people might find this situation embarrassing.  Those people are not healers with werewolf boyfriends.

When he’s able to muster the strength, Stiles sits up to pull up his pants and inspect Derek’s leg.  The seam in the skin is already fading – huh, maybe sex speeds up the healing process.  Good to know.

Stiles can’t help grinning as he brushes his fingers over Derek’s thigh.  “Look at me, I’m like the Mother Teresa of booty calls.”

Derek snorts.  “ _That’s_ what you’re calling this?”

Stiles turns to stare down at him, pleased as always that Derek’s feeling well enough to sass him.  “Uh, I received a late night phone call, and when I showed up, _bam_.”  He slaps the side of Derek’s semi-exposed ass.  “Booty.  Which is now miraculously healed booty.”  Well, thigh, but close the hell enough.

It’s either Stiles’ awesome sex powers or the blood loss talking, but Derek’s sarcasm is mild.  “Your charity is greatly appreciated.”

Stiles frowns thoughtfully.  “You know, I think I can get canonized if I perform three miracles.”

“With your dick, I suppose?”

“If you insist.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up not submitting this one, despite the fabulous text, because it began the same way as my first challenge fic, with Derek injured. It also ended similarly with a dialogue punch line, and I wasn't sure I could get across all the elements I thought were important (humor, Stiles' anxiety and relief, sexings) and still get it down to 750 words. That word limit is a bitch!


	4. Bonus 3: Sports Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison & Lydia & Erica, mature (just to be on the safe side)  
> (background Allison/Scott, Lydia/Jackson, and Erica/Boyd)

Thursday is basketball night. Well, for the guys, anyway.  


&&&

  
Allison, unsurprisingly, is the sweetest about it. “Have fun,” she says, kissing Scott on the cheek.  
  
Lydia is a little more direct. “Don’t embarrass me,” she snaps, practically shoving Jackson out the door.  
  
Erica just gives Boyd a fistbump and a “Kick Derek’s ass.”

 

&&&

  
Once the guys are gone, they meet up at Lydia’s house.  
  
“What does your boyfriend think we do on Thursday nights?” Erica asks, getting comfortable on the bed. Which includes removing her pants.  
  
Allison rolls her eyes affectionately, digging around in her purse for a small silk bag. “He never asks. Do yours?”  
  
“Nope,” Erica and Lydia say at the same time.  
  
“Pretty sure Jackson thinks we make out,” Lydia says, hooking the laptop up to the huge flat-screen in her room. Her parents won’t be home for hours.  
  
“We could try it,” Allison says, fluttering her eyelashes.  
  
Lydia looks back and forth at the other two. “Sorry, not my type.”  
  
“Yes, we all know how much you love the cock,” Erica groans. “You won’t shut the hell up about it.”  
  
“Ladies, please,” Allison says primly. “If there’s one thing we can all agree on…”  
  
“Yeah, just turn on the porn, Martin,” Erica laughs, settling back and slipping her hand into her panties.  
  
Lydia hits “play” and hurries to lube up her Jackrabbit while Allison puts the small butterfly vibe on low and settles it just where she wants it, letting her jeans and underwear hold it in place.  
  
“Sean Cody again?” Erica asks, though it doesn’t sound like she’s complaining.  
  
“It’s good this week,” Lydia says, a little breathless as she eases the thick vibrator inside. “Trust me.”

 

&&&

  
“Have fun with the girls tonight?” Scott asks.  
  
“Yep,” Allison says brightly, no lie in her heartbeat.

 

&&&

  
“It smells like lube in here,” Jackson says, staring at the rumpled bedcovers.  
  
Lydia arches an eyebrow. “Your point?”  


&&&

  
“Was the gay porn any good?” Boyd asks.  
  
Erica sighs. “Not as good as watching you guys playing shirts vs. skins. No, wait, I’m sorry: skins vs. skins.”  
  
“We’re not pieces of meat, Erica,” Boyd deadpans.  
  
“The hell you’re not,” Erica snaps, eyes flashing just before she tackles him to the floor.


	5. Bonus 4: Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles might be living in a David Lynch movie. (gen)
> 
> Sort-of spoilers for Twin Peaks, but if you don't know the show, it won't make any sense

_Twin Peaks_ shows up on Stiles’ Netflix recommendations list and he decides, why the hell not? Except the more he watches, the more he starts getting weirded out by the similarities to his own life. Small woodsy town in the Pacific Northwest? Check. Supernatural happenings and murders? Check. Precocious high schoolers with absentee parents getting themselves in way over their heads? Like, quintuple check. And everything starts to come unraveled with the murder of a girl named Laura.  
  
He’s babbling about it – minus that last part, of course – to Derek as they’re driving to meet a pack whose territory borders their own, not thinking for a second that Derek’s listening, when Derek mutters, “Guess you think you’re the Dale Cooper here, huh?”  
  
Stiles skips straight past the part where Derek actually got the cultural reference, because the more obscure it is, the more bizarrely likely Derek is to know it. “Well, I hadn’t thought about that” – he totally has – “but, you know, the effortless charm, the outside-the-box thinking, the selflessly throwing myself into danger. I don’t know that I’d call myself a _hero_ , really” – he totally would – “but I do love a damn fine cup of coffee.”  
  
Derek snorts. “I always had you pegged as more of a Log Lady.”  
  
“What, because of my mystical insight into the supernatural?”  
  
“No, because most of the time you don’t make any damn sense.”  
  
“That’s just because you’re not paying attention,” Stiles huffs. “Anyway, I think we can both agree that Lydia is Audrey.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And Allison is Donna. When she’s not being all, y’know, murder-y.”  
  
“So that makes Scott who? James?”  
  
Stiles doubles over with laughter. “Oh my god, could you see him trying to ride a motorcycle? He would do more damage than the entire alpha pack. But, yeah, I guess if you toss in the bicycle, Scott is enough of a goober to be James.”  
  
“Or Deputy Andy.”  
  
“Hey, be nice! Give Scott a little more credit than that.”  
  
Derek sighs. “Fine.”  
  
“And Jackson is so Bobby Briggs, even though Lydia is _not_ Shelly.”  
  
“Bobby did start hitting on Audrey towards the end.”  
  
Stiles hums, lost in thought. “Do we have a Shelly? I don’t think we do.”  
  
“And here I thought you were going to say Jackson is Bob.”  
  
 _If anybody here is Bob, it’s Peter_ , Stiles thinks. He’s the only one going around possessing people and, oh yeah, he _murdered Laura_. But Stiles doesn’t say it, because telling Derek that his uncle is the embodiment of pure evil, despite what he’s done, is probably not the way to go.  
  
“Nah, Gerard is Bob,” Stiles says instead. He doesn’t say _was_ , because they still don’t know. “Or possibly Windom Earle.”  
  
“Erica, Isaac, and Boyd?” Derek asks.  
  
“Ooh, that’s tough. Erica could totally grow up to be Catherine Martell. Isaac could be Deputy Hawk. Boyd’s a bit of a mystery, so… Major Briggs? Ha ha, he’s Jackson’s daddy.”  
  
That actually gets a smirk out of Derek. “You’re forgetting somebody pretty major.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Sheriff Truman.”  
  
“Dude, you’re the Sheriff.”  
  
“What? If anything, I figured the _Sheriff_ would be the Sheriff.”  
  
“Nah, no way my dad would put up with the supernatural crap if he knew about it. I admit, you’re not a perfect fit, but you do kind of hold it all together. And give the orders. Even if they’re sometimes shitty orders.”  
  
“Thanks for that.”  
  
Stiles is silent after that, because Derek doesn’t quite fit easily into any of the characters. Neither does Stiles, really. He’s too mouthy and spastic to actually be Agent Cooper, and besides, he would rather drop dead than wear a suit every day of his life. Maybe the comparisons are a little shaky all around – which is a pretty good thing, if you watch the whole series and the movie. Because _yikes_.  
  
Stiles is so lost in thought that he slams up against the door when Derek jerks the wheel hard and they get on an exit ramp. “Hey, where are you going? We’ll be late.”  
  
“Fuck it,” Derek grumbles, “all I can think about is cherry pie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the prompt was for movies and I know Twin Peaks is a TV show, but Fire Walk With Me got a theatrical release and I've had this idea kicking around in my head for a while now.


	6. Bonus 5: Road Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia & Erica & Allison, gen

“Erica, if you don’t stop referring to us as ‘Team Estrogen,’ I’m leaving you at the next rest stop.”  
  
Erica snorts, leaning between the two front seats. “Um, _one_ , not that big a deal because your idea of a ‘rest stop’ is four-star hotel, and _two_ , I thought you’d appreciate the scientific accuracy.”  
  
“Men have estrogen, too.”  
  
“Hey, just because your boyfriend is all girly pouts and—”  
  
Lydia turns her head to retort and Allison has to dive over the console to make sure the steering wheel doesn’t turn with her. Lydia is… not the best driver of the three of them, but she _is_ the biggest control freak and she hasn’t asked Erica or Allison for gas money yet, so Allison’s fine with it. As long as Lydia stays in one lane at a time.  
  
“Okay,” Allison says cheerily, “semi in the next lane does not play well with cute little convertibles. Let’s table this discussion until lunch.”  
  
“Alright, but I want something greasy and disgusting,” Erica sighs. “I don’t know how you keep finding vegan cafes, but if you don’t consume at least one mystery-meat patty per day, it’s not a road trip.”  
  
“Not all of us have werewolf metabolisms,” Lydia snaps.  
  
“Not all of us can survive on nothing but soy products and diet water.”  
  
“It’s just _water_ , for Christ’s sake.”  
  
“No, water comes out of a faucet. Whatever you’ve got in those fancy bottles had better be some kind of magical unicorn tears, considering what you paid for them.”  
  
“Just because you can’t afford a—”  
  
“ _HEY!_ ”  
  
They both turn and look at Allison. Well, Lydia only looks for a second, because Allison’s giving her her best _keep your eyes on the fucking road_ glare. “We are not doing this catty shit all the way to Frisco. I have a crossbow in my bag, and I will use it if I have to.”  
  
“No, you don’t.” Lydia pauses, then shoots a look at Erica in the rearview mirror. “Does she?”  
  
Erica shrugs. “How the hell should I know? You’re not worth chancing it, though.”  
  
Lydia actually sticks her tongue out. Allison only wishes she could get to her phone fast enough to take a picture.


	7. Bonus 6: Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek/Stiles pre-slash (but mostly crack), general audiences

“Dare you.”  
  
“What are we, Scott, twelve?”  
  
“Double dog dare you.”  
  
“Okay, a) you’ve breached proper dare etiquette by bypassing the first ‘double dare,’ and b) _he can hear you_.” Stiles smacks Scott upside the head. “Werewolf, remember?”  
  
They both look over at Derek, lying on the beach towel about thirty feet away. Scott sighs and has the nerve to roll his eyes. “He’s asleep.”  
  
“No way. He’s faking. Derek doesn’t take tanning naps in the sun. This is not a thing that happens.”  
  
“Uh, you can’t fake slowing your heartbeat like that. I can tell. Because _werewolf_.”  
  
“Okay, suppose I make it over there and do it. You do know he will immediately kill me when he wakes up, right?”  
  
“No, he won’t,” Isaac says, coming back from the shaved ice stand and sounding distressingly amused.  
  
“Eavesdropping is bad,” Stiles says, pouting. Fuck, now he’s _pouting_. It means he’s going to _have_ to do this. To reclaim his honor. “What are the terms?”  
  
“I believe you get to make an equivalent dare in return,” Isaac answers thoughtfully.  
  
“How can I possibly make an equivalent dare?” Stiles squawks at Scott. “There is nothing around here I can make you do to endanger your life!”  
  
“I told you,” Isaac singsongs. “He’s not gonna kill you.”  
  
“Shut up and eat your blue-flavored ice.”  
  
Meanwhile, Scott has opened the cooler and pulled out an ice cube. He holds it out to Stiles. “You only have to do one.”  
  
“And _then_ what?”  
  
“Um, run?”  
  
“You suck,” Stiles says, taking the ice cube. It’s so hot out that it’s already slippery in his fingers. “And _you_ suck,” he says, pointing the cube at Isaac.  
  
Stiles is determined to get this over with as fast as possible, so when he turns on his heels and walks away, he doesn’t quite catch Isaac’s muttered comment about sucking that Scott laughs at. _Ha_ , Stiles totally knew there was something going on there, even if it was just stupid flirting.  
  
He crosses the thirty feet of sand alarmingly quickly, and up close, Derek does genuinely look like he’s sleeping. Stiles considers whispering “Are you awake?” just to see, but that probably would actually wake Derek up and then Stiles would have to explain and then meet his untimely demise.  
  
Stiles crouches down over Derek’s relaxed body. He considers faking it, but the two bastards who call themselves his friends would probably know – _werewolves_ – and that would be worse than chickening out in the first place. Which is slightly worse than a grisly death?  
  
Fuck it, they’re not even twelve. They’re all overgrown preschoolers.  
  
But Stiles has a job to do, and he follows through on his commitment, so he shakes the sweat off the ice cube. He doesn’t want any water to drip. Carefully, with the steady hands and precision of a surgeon, he lowers the cube to Derek’s chest and makes one quick swipe of the ice over Derek’s right nipple.  
  
There’s a grunt, and Stiles looks up to see Derek awake but perfectly still, eyes open and _red_.  
  
He gives Derek his widest, most dazzling shit-eating grin.  
  
Before he can say “hey, perky,” Stiles is thrown over a shoulder, even warmer than usual from the sun, and all he can see is the rush of sand below him. He doesn’t struggle; struggling will only make it worse. Derek is obviously taking him to the water where Stiles’ blood will just wash away and his corpse will float up the coast to Alaska. Very tidy of Derek, really.  
  
Except for there’s a sudden heave and gravity, which has never really been on friendly terms with Stiles, goes on lunch break and Stiles is hurtling through the air. He hits the cold water of the Pacific Ocean with a bracing _smack_ , and after only a minimum of flailing (no, really), he rights himself and sputters, turning back to the shore, where Derek is smirking at him from a really disturbing distance.  
  
“What?” Stiles yells. “You just gonna stand there looking menacing until I swim back? Because let me tell you, buddy, I can tread water for a _long_ time.”  
  
“I’m aware,” Derek shouts back.


End file.
